


Daytime Neon

by Wolver_bean



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Missing Scene, Recovery, Trauma, Worried dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolver_bean/pseuds/Wolver_bean
Summary: Sheriff copes with the fact that Lightning isn’t the same as before.





	Daytime Neon

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write my ideas down as they come- this one is newer than others, but it came easier and was finished first ...That or I think I just remembered it better. (cries in ADHD)

A traveler parks under the roof at Flo’s, orders a drink.

 

He waits for his order and looks around at the town. It’s a nice place- small, quaint, but well cared for; even the empty shops have dusted sills. All is still except for a low, cold wind scattered with snow. The sun has risen, but grey clouds block it, low on the horizon. To his right, a towering neon sign buzzes, standing sentinel.

 

On the road, a police cruiser is the only car passing by. The traveler smiles pleasantly- and the cruiser parks next to him, friendly, yet somber.

 

“Good morning Officer,” the car greets. “This your town?”

 

“Sure is.”

 

“Real nice place you've got here.”

 

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world,” the old Mercury says on reflex. “Where are you headed, traveler?”

 

The traveler’s drink arrives. “Thank you. Oh, out west. New job.”

  
“Enjoying the Mother Road?”

  
“Yes. I don’t like driving on the highway. Too crowded.”

 

The officer hums in agreement.

 

The wind blows again and a sign across the road creaks. Both cars shiver. “It always this cold here in winter? In the desert?”

  
Sheriff sits back on his suspension. “No. I’ve lived here almost my whole life, and we’ve never seen it like this.”

 

“Must be tough to adjust to.”

 

The sheriff looks away. “...It’s been a rough winter.”

 

Suddenly, a door on the building next to the station swings open, ancient hinges creaking in the chill. The traveler looks up in time to see a streak of grey and red move with a rumble into the desert beyond the Cafe. Next to him, the sheriff’s breath hitches.

 

Something in his mind clicks.

 

“Hey, isn’t this that racecar town?” The police cruiser stands up with a start. “Radiator Springs... was that Lightning McQueen? I thought he was still in the hospital. Probably still should be- when they cut to commercials everyone thought he-“

 

The officer doesn’t look at him as he speaks. Instead, he starts his engine. “Good day, sir,” he says, and without tearing his gaze from the direction the other car had gone in, he drives off into the cold sand.

 

Across the road, a sign creaks.

 

***

 

He finds Lightning at the Butte.

 

It’s snowing harder now, and the boy is already shivering, staring at the track- no, through it, as if nothing were there.

 

“C’mon son. I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean you. You know that,” Sheriff says quietly, knowing he won’t get a response. Lightning hasn’t said anything in weeks, let alone acknowledged anyone. The boy had been unconsolable like this once before. But that was grief- this was survival. Everyone loses someone. But you only die once.

 

Lightning paces instead of listening. Back and forth, back and forth, circles, circles, panting like he’s in a nightmare. Restless, as if he were trying to get away from his own body.  The doctors said ‘eight weeks of rest’, and barely two have passed. ‘Be patient’, ‘give him time’ they said. But new bodywork burns. The feeling of fire never leaves new welds. How do you un-crash if the moment never ends?

 

Sheriff hasn’t given up hope. He hasn’t. He watches him pace. “Stop that now. Come back inside, you’ll catch a chill out here. Come back now, boy.”

 

Lightning looks at him.

 

Not through him. At him.

 

Sheriff freezes, unsure of what to say now. He didn't think Lightning would respond, he didn't think-

 

Lightning looks at the track and back to him. He starts to pace another circle, then stops. Snowflakes rest on his primer but they don’t melt. He opens his mouth.

 

“I don’t-” Voice thick, he looks away to the butte. Takes a shuddering breath.

 

“I don’t...I don’t, I don’t-” He gasps as if he’s in pain and turns away, giving up.

 

Sheriff reaches out an old flabby tire. “Son-”

 

Lightning flinches away.

 

Doesn't try to stutter again.

 

***

 

Sarge is in his hut moving boxes when Sheriff drives in. He was moving boxes yesterday it seems. And the day before.

 

“Sheriff.”

 

“Sarge.”

 

He leans against the doorframe. Sarge notices, takes his tire out of the box. It thuds on the concrete floor. He looks at Sheriff, waiting.

 

Sheriff dodges his harsh gaze. Changes the subject before it comes up. “It’s pretty spotless in here.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

 

“It’s a mess this store.”

 

“There ain't a speck of dust-”

 

“I’ve let the place go,” he says, thinking about the weeks he spent on the road, the days he spent in a Los Angeles hotel, “there was a customer at Flo’s earlier, if someone comes in here-”

 

“Sergeant.”

  
Sarge glares- but it isn't mean or harsh. He reconsiders.

 

“Fine,” he pushes the box away. “Fine. It’s clean now. But what else are we supposed to do?” he says in a frustrated huff. It isn’t a question- he glares at Sheriff.

 

Sheriff looks away again.

 

“Maybe _you_ should find something to do.” Sarge continues. “Maybe that's what you need.”

 

“I don’t know what to do-”

 

“Talk to him.”

 

“I did.” Sheriff admits. Sarge looks at him in surprise. “Down by the Butte.”

 

“He went to the butte? ...Hm. See, I told you. I told you he would recover. That kid is tough if I’ve ever seen it-”

 

“But-” Sheriff interjects.

 

“But what?”

 

“He isn’t… the same.”

 

The old metal walls of the Surplus Hut rattle under a strong gust of wind.

 

“Well,” Sarge says like it's obvious, “why would he be?”

 

Sheriff blinks; he’s right. He hates it, but Sarge is right. It’s what he didn’t want to hear. It’s what no one wants to hear. Cars don't get rebuilt and stay the same. New parts, new pain, new lines of panicked code seared into their ECU. There isn’t a new part for memories. You can’t get that replaced.

 

Sheriff hates to think the kid’s glowing optimism has been marred, twisted. His ease and confidence brought a glow to the sleepy town and smiles to their faces. Simply, it was a joy to be a family together, to be whole and happy and healthy. But some dark shadow is gripping him from the inside now, strangling that inherent light, that fire. Sheriff can’t just turn on his siren and drive the shadow off, brandishing his pistol. He wishes he could.

 

All Sheriff wants is to see him smile again. Deep down, he knows he will- but right now? It feels like they’re all trapped on an electrified flight- floating high in dim light, waiting for the engines to turn over once again and catch air. He compensates for this feeling by taking a deep breath.

 

“He’ll be alright,” Sarge says. “But he won’t be the same.”

 

Outside, the neon buzzes, and the snow falls,

 

heavy.

**Author's Note:**

> Flicker, flicker, flicker, glow.  
> (Red, red, red, go.)


End file.
